The sun was relentless as it beat down on the practice fields. Often, we practiced inside where it was air-conditioned, but as we neared the start of the season, where we’d have less control over the elements, Coach told us to suck it up and drink more water.
I flipped my hat onto the bench and tugged my helmet on, lining up behind Roberts, my new center.
“Watch for the blitz,” I told him. Lining up against your own team always lessened the pressure but building trust with new players was key in finding success during the regular season. He and I were getting there, but it was a work in progress.
I yelled the play to my offensive line, motioning to my running back and receivers. “Watch the edges,” I snapped when one of the rookies focused in the wrong direction.
Our defense lined up, crouching down as I took my spot behind Roberts.
“Set,” I barked, “hut.”
The ball snapped cleanly into my hands, and I danced back a couple of steps.
The tight end blocked my right the way he was supposed to, and Darius took off in a dead sprint down the center toward the post. The O-line pushed the defense right, like they were supposed to, and I stepped out to the left, heaving the ball. If Darius cut over after fifteen yards, he’d line up exactly where the ball was supposed to fall, about thirty yards past the line.
He stretched his arms out, and it landed soft and pretty right in his hands.
Someone smacked my ass when he strode, fist raised in the air, into the end zone. I grinned.
The offense celebrated, and a few defensive linebackers shoved at my shoulders as they went to get some Gatorade.
These were moments my love for football was the clearest, the pure enjoyment of playing the game, separate from all the pressure I’d put on myself to chase wins and records.
It was easy to lose it in the tangle of all those other things, and it was a good reminder that there should be a way out of this so I could have Adaline in the way both of us wanted—and not have to walk away from something I loved.
As I walked across the field, I felt Ned’s gaze on me, and even though I couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, I jerked my chin up in greeting. I didn’t smile.
Not like I normally would.
I used to see someone I couldn’t quite take seriously in his leadership role, someone misguided in trying to find a way to prove himself in a really fucking tough industry.
Now I just saw a coward who was in my way.
I didn’t want to send Adaline baked goods once a week, just so she knew I was still thinking of her.
I wanted to be with her. Wanted to marry her. Have kids with her. Wanted to love her, hold her, kiss her, take her to bed—every fucking day for the rest of my life—because I’d be just as good at that as I was playing this game. Better, actually.
For the first time in twenty-six years, I had someone who was mine to take care of. And that mattered.
Someone at the table handed me a bottle of Gatorade, and I accepted it with a smile. Halfway through my drink, an assistant coach approached with a large crate in his hands.
“Ward?” He was grinning widely. “I, uh, got a package for you.”
“What is it?”
Darius and Josh crowded around me. When the assistant set the heavy crate in my outstretched arms, they burst out laughing as they looked over my shoulder.
Inside the crate were carrots—dirty from the ground and still connected to the bright green stalks—heads of broccoli and sweet potatoes. Nestled on top of the fresh vegetables was a note.
Emmett, I’d send you something delicious, but you have terrible taste in snacks. Good luck in your first game.